The Art of Communication
by Weiila
Summary: Follow-up to Remembering Grey. For the first time in years, Theramore and Durotar send representatives to meet peacefully and discuss the situation between the nations. In another part of the world, a man's recent past catches up with him.
1. Part 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, only the names and personalities of my OCs._

_Author's note: Normally I don't take random review requests for writing things, but since ya'll seemed curious about a few loose ends I decided to write a two-part follow-up of _Remembering Grey_. Part one deals with Thomas, part two concerns... well, an old friend or two of Thomas. Uweheheheh..._

_This story is rather peaceful, but I assure you that the next one in the series will be intense. _

The Art of Communication

Part one, Camaraderie

Just after midday on a fairly sunny day, a medium sized ship left the port in Theramore and sailed towards Ratchet. It did not carry any precious wares to be sold to the goblins, yet there were several soldiers of Theramore onboard and ready to protect the 'cargo'. Hopefully they would have no reason to even reach for their swords. A situation requiring weapons, as soon as they reached Ratchet, would undo the whole reason for this journey.

For the first time in years there would actually be a diplomatic, official meeting between emissaries from Theramore and Durotar.

One could almost taste the curious tension in the air, muddled with the thick smell from the swamp.

They may have left the port under a cheerfully blue sky, but soon they sailed into the dank mist rolling out of Dustwallow. Up on deck, two men stood by the railing, gazing at the brown, wet wall surrounding them and creeping over the ship. The sight was not too bad, as the ship sailed towards the open water in order to get past the mist as soon as possible. Monsters wouldn't be able to climb up the side of the ship unnoticed.

One of the men decided that it was high time to break the thoughtful silence.

"How are you feeling, Sir?" Simon Nebula politely asked.

He voiced this question after watching Thomas Southstone correct his own collar for the third time in two minutes. The breeze from the ocean toyed with their hair, and the new emissary apparently thought that it messed with his robe as well. It didn't really, so it was not hard to spot the signs of a nervous mind.

Sighing, Thomas looked down at himself and let his hand fall to the ship's railing.

"Naked. I miss my armor," he admitted, then added quickly while waving his hand at the chuckling Simon, "I know I'm not going out to battle. But still."

"I suppose I understand, Sir." To hide his grin, Simon looked around. The mist of the swamp still hung in the air, but one could see the glow of the sun above. Soon, they would be under the blue sky again.

While the crew went about their business, the handful of other Theramore soldiers stood a little ways away, talking amongst each other.

The aide turned back to the emissary, finding him staring out at nothing with an unreadable expression.

"By the way," Simon started, "the escort and I were wondering about that story behind you and this orc representative, Sir. Would you mind telling us?"

Thomas nodded as he turned his head, smiling.

"Of course. Call them over."

As Simon turned around to go fetch the rest of the escort, Thomas allowed himself a frown. He did not have many worries about meeting Dor'ash and whatever other orcs the shaman might be bringing for this first meeting. No, not the orcs. However, he had received no reply to his frantically written message to Dor'ash. There was no way to tell if it had reached Orgrimmar, and the shaman, in time.

But Dor'ash would not bring Sarah along, would he? This was between Theramore and Orgrimmar, and Forsaken weren't exactly the symbol of friendliness.

He could only hope that she wouldn't be there. If she really was Simon's dead sister, it would be a disaster.

As his entire escort walked towards him though, Thomas had to push the troubling thoughts aside and just show as much of a relaxed, friendly side as he could muster despite the mental storm clouds. Apart from Simon, acting as Thomas' aide, there were four soldiers – all veterans from the battle on Hyjal. Lady Jaina had set the scene so that the orcish representatives would only meet with men and women who remembered that alliance. According to her, Warchief Thrall had planned much of the same. The two of them really wanted peace, and thinking about that Thomas felt a swell of pride at being chosen as a tool for this purpose – although muddled with some anxiety about whether he would be able to do a good job. It wasn't something he had been trained for, like a proper diplomat. But he knew that he could count on Dor'ash to be civil and friendly, and that would be an easy start.

Just as long as that unpleasant very-possibly-family reunion didn't take place.

Argh.

The escort surrounded him, watching him curiously as he nodded again. With a great heave of willpower Thomas forced himself to relax, and began telling the story of how he came to be an emissary of Theramore, starting in the green, humid depths of the Un'goro crater.

When he got to the part in Stranglethorn where he and the others met Dor'ash, he renamed Sarah 'Savannah' to avoid suspicion. It may be a gamble of sorts, but one he chose to risk. A couple of times he almost slipped on that during the tale, but managed to catch himself. That was something else which he had written in the message to Dor'ash after meeting Simon for the first time. Yet another reason to hope that he had received the letter, otherwise this white lie might get blown within the first five minutes even if Sarah wasn't at the meeting.

As he reached the end of the tale, Thomas added:

"Although I wouldn't talk too much about that with Dor'ash. He and the others seemed to be a little embarrassed at being saved by an undead woman."

"Can't blame them, Sir," one of the female soldiers said, with a thoughtful frown. "Why would she do that, though?"

"Probably just enjoyed the scare, I suppose. I hope," Thomas said, shrugging.

A couple of uneasy chuckles were heard, in understanding of his last two words.

By this time they were well out of the mist, and the sun shone down on the sea and the approaching, dusty land. They passed by Northwatch Hold without incident and continued towards Ratchet at good speed.

Long before they docked, they spotted the clump of short, green figures waiting for them on the pier. The goblins, being the hosts of this occasion, apparently wanted to make a good impression since they waited with an escort of their own.

"The orcish representatives are already here," the goblin in the front announced in a typically high-pitched, nasal voice, while the humans walked down the gangway.

"I hope we haven't kept them waiting long," Thomas said. He actually desperately hoped that he could get some hint about whether or not Sarah had come along. If she had, it would be impossible to cushion the fall, but he would at least be prepared.

"Not at all, Sir," the goblin said, eternal grin unwavering. "Their leader even said to tell you that you needn't worry about a thing. Really relaxed group, for orcs."

"Ah." Thomas forced himself to not let the relief show. "Most gracious."

The goblins led the guests up to the city and onwards to the trade manager Gazlowe's own house. From early mercenary-like work of his past, Thomas knew that the building normally whirred with activity and little green men running about with messages and strange items, as well as the occasional adventurer coming in looking for work or reporting their results.

Today, however, the place had been cleared out so that this rather historical meeting could take place in peace. In a secure place too, Thomas imagined. There were surely many who did not like the idea of diplomatic ties between Theramore and Durotar. However, assaulting Gazlowe's home meant messing with a man under direct protection of the goblin Trade Princes, something no sane person – and few insane, even – would consider.

Gazlowe himself greeted the humans by the door, and ushered them inside. He didn't look much different from others of his kind, except for the discolored, sunken patch around his right eye. It caused a rather manic stare, but his smile was friendly and people found themselves getting used to the intense look – often to their own surprise.

The other goblins filed out in the entrance room as Gazlowe led his guests up the stairs.

"Your Lady Proudmoore and the Warchief insisted that we should help you in any way possible," he explained. "Both of them even said that they believed this would be a perfectly peaceful meeting. So I'm taking the risk of letting you and your big friends borrow my office."

Oh, no added pressure at all. How much payment had Gazlowe been promised? And how much more would he demand if a single pencil got broken for any reason?

Thomas mentally shook his head, telling himself to calm down. Dor'ash was in charge of the orcs. It would be fine. Still, now that the meeting was so close, Thomas found himself wondering if he was truly up to this task. So much could go wrong, no matter what he and Dor'ash did.

Reaching the top of the stair, Gazlowe opened a door and politely waved at the humans to enter.

It was a large room, with a thick green carpet on the floor and the walls covered with maps of Kalimdor and smaller regions, drawn roads crisscrossing each piece of picture land. A huge table had been prepared, with human-sized chairs lined up along one side, and orc-sized on the other. As the group from Theramore entered, three of the orcs in the room were sitting, but now they got to their feet.

Thomas instantly met the leader's eyes.

Though he wore much lighter leather armor than he had in Stranglethorn, Dor'ash looked just the same. Same dozens of tiny braids in his black hair (and looking at his huge fingers, that hairdo was a plain mystery), same friendly grin, as far as a mouth full of fangs goes. With the lighter armor, one got to see more of the scars on his arms. Many were obviously from claws – several alike, lighter green little ridges or tears in a row – but others were solitary. Daggers or swords.

The other four orcs wore similarly light armor, but that didn't take away much of how they towered over the humans – each hand the size of any of the men and women's heads if not bigger. Looking at them, and Dor'ash, Thomas reflected on how once upon a time all orcs had looked the same to him. This despite the fact that they all had different hairstyles, some having beards and some not. They even had different skin color, if you looked closer. Dor'ash and one of his companions had a more teal hue, and the one furthest away was definitely a shade darker green than everyone else.

All had scars to match. How many of those marks had been collected on Hyjal?

These thoughts were brief, because Dor'ash strode forwards with that huge grin on his face and grabbed Thomas' offered hands. The former paladin grinned back with the same feeling, glad to see this strange ally from the jungle again, and in a peaceful situation. He was also relieved to find that his fingers never ran the risk of getting crushed. Dor'ash used only a fraction of pressure in his grip. Hearty, but not dangerous. The nervousness gave away, just like that.

"Well I'll be!" Gazlowe squeakily commented in the background.

_Oh, ye of little faith,_ Thomas cheerfully thought.

"Throm-ka, Dor'ash," he said aloud.

"I am glad to see you well, my friend," the shaman replied.

"Yes, I needed a few night's worth of sleep to recover after all that happened." He smiled gratefully. "And thank you for giving me a chance to recover at all."

Dor'ash nodded.

"You earned the protection," he said, sincere despite the remaining grin. Letting go of Thomas's hands, he gave the human a light – for an orc – thump on the back.

They both thought of the people in Grom'gol, pretty much everyone there, who had wanted nothing but to lynch the little paladin. It wasn't something they should bring up, though. It would definitely sour the air in the eyes of the Theramore soldiers.

Recovering his balance after the thump, Thomas turned to make introductions of his escort. By now, everyone in the room had a curious look on their face, as if none of them had actually believed in this friendship they had heard about.

Well, can you call it friendship when you have only spent two days with somebody?

Good enough.

Thomas glanced at Dor'ash when introducing Simon, but though the shaman's fleshy eyebrows gave a small twitch in recognition, he looked at this living Nebula no longer than any of the other humans. His voice revealed no concern when Dor'ash introduced his own escort, either. Near perfect self control.

There was that burning question they could not speak of, but as the two groups moved to sit down around the table, Thomas caught Dor'ash's eye. The human glanced aside, towards Simon, his head turned so that nobody but Dor'ash saw it. Silently, the orc pursed his mouth and one of his lightly armored shoulders twitched. He couldn't tell for certain, either.

That had to be enough, for now. Both of them had to shake off that particular unease, too, in order to focus on their purpose here.

"So." Thomas folded his hands on the table. It helped him gather his thoughts. "I have not studied to become a diplomat, so you may find I'm not so good at slipping around issues like an eel drenched in oil."

"We appreciate that," Dor'ash said, grinning around one tusk while the other orcs cracked up beside him.

Thomas felt the disbelieving glances he got from his escort. However, he had been chosen for this because he had dealt with orcs and trolls on a friendly level – Lady Jaina had made this very clear to him. She too knew that they preferred bluntness to sugarcoating and silky lies – the weapons of a trained emissary. Thomas suspected that the Lady too liked this upfront philosophy. It certainly would make things easier.

"Since it's a first meeting, also, I do not feel I have the freedom to discuss everything since I have not had the time to learn all about the politics in Kalimdor," Thomas went on. "If there's anything we can't sort out here that you would like to bring up, however, we could save that for a latter meeting."

"Yes, we understand," Dor'ash said with a nod. "I will be the main representative today and for the next meeting, just to stabilize things. Areg here will take over after that."

He motioned to the orc on his right side, who nodded, watching Thomas with curious interest.

"You can speak to both of us in the same way," the other orc said.

"Very well," Thomas said with a nod to him. "So, Lady Proudmoore hopes that we will be able to sort things out between our people. I'm sure we can agree that this will be rather difficult."

"A pain in the ass, you mean," Areg said with a huge sneer.

Dor'ash didn't comment, only rolled his eyes as the other orcs snickered. Although Thomas noticed the members of his escort tensing at this uncouth behavior at an official meeting, he merely smirked right back. He recognized a test when he saw one.

"That being a good summary of the situation, yes," he agreed.

The orcs looked at him – still chuckling, but with no trace of contempt. Dor'ash gave a small nod, grinning.

Shaking his head, Thomas held up both hands.

"Fine, I get it," he said, "I was sounding too formal for my own taste as well. Simon." He turned his hand so that the palm pointed up.

Simon looked as if he didn't know whether to stare or laugh, but handed over a rolled up document which Thomas spread over the table.

"Let's see. First of all, Lady Proudmoore wishes to officially apologize for the spies that were caught sneaking around Brackenwall village," he said, looking up. "She did not approve of them, but people were suspicious of the sudden orc and ogre activity in the area."

The amusement faltered into seriousness on the orcs' faces, and they nodded.

"If not for the black dragons, the ogres wouldn't even be there in the first place," Dor'ash said. "They will return to their old habitat as soon as possible. However, as they are our allies the Warchief sent some troops to help them. Everyone was on edge, so when they caught human spies they acted without thinking although they had orders from the Warchief not to get into fights with Theramore."

"Have you ever tried to reason with an ogre?" Areg interjected, shaking his head.

"Not apart from shouting 'halt or the righteous power of the Light shall- aaargh!' no," Thomas said, glancing down at his list again while making a motion towards his shoulder as if to indicate an old wound.

The following silence broke when a snort escaped one of his soldiers, followed by a helpless bout of chuckling. That opened the floodgates, and everyone cracked up. Grinning triumphantly Thomas looked up and met the same expression on Dor'ash's face.

Although the emissary wouldn't admit it, he silently thanked his friend Collins for that joke. That man was full of those.

He waited until the laughter ebbed out before he tapped the paper on the table with one finger.

"Anyway," he said, "since there were, ah, 'only' a few dozen broken bones and no casualties, thank goodness, the greatest harm was, of course, lost trust between Theramore and your outpost."

"Ah yes, the Warchief was less than pleased for what happened, although relieved that nobody was killed," Dor'ash said, serious again. "We mean no offense in the area and hoped that finding the culprits who destroyed the Shady Rest Inn would be a form of peace offering."

Thomas nodded.

"It was appreciated, but to tell the truth those spies shouldn't have been there in the first place."

This time Dor'ash didn't answer, but turned his head towards Areg. The future representative watched Thomas with even more interest than before, some respect even. It had to be for the quick comebacks, because so far Thomas knew he had officially said sorry too much to earn any higher opinion from his job.

"Apology accepted," Areg said, and Dor'ash nodded agreement.

"Since we are on the subject," the shaman began, "we are searching for the people who attacked Northwatch Hold and wounded and killed many of the soldiers there. We will let you know when there are results."

The meeting continued in the same vein, with both sides mainly bringing up small but painful everyday skirmishes and getting answers to what was done about them. The most complicated issue remained that of Northwatch Hold and the trigger-happy soldiers therein, but seeing as this was being beaten on by Lady Proudmoore already – sinking neutral trading ships had not gone down well for the guilty – it could be handled.

Tiragarde Keep and the Kul Tiras fanatics within had to be laid aside. Thomas felt grim doubts about ever being able to do anything about that diplomatically. From what he had heard, those soldiers were on par with the Scarlet Crusade when it came to reasoning.

It was the first time that Thomas had spoken with several orcs at the same time, and during the discussion he noted how their speech patterns were slightly different. It was like his earlier mental note on how they didn't at all look exactly the same. True that when they spoke, their Common had an Orcish accent which made the Rs and Ks especially rougher and deeper. However, if one listened closely there were other, smaller differences. When Dor'ash said, for example, "think" and "thing", he rolled the first sound so much that the "th" sounded almost like "s". Thomas recognized that as a typical feature of the Alterac dialect of Common. The way Areg pronounced Os hinted at northern Arathi.

Not too confusing, really, they must have learned from the humans they came in contact with… but then, hadn't the Frostwolves secluded themselves from the world, hidden in the Alterac mountains, and definitely not taken part in the wars? Who exactly taught Dor'ash to speak Common so well? He must have learnt from a young age considering his proficiency. Some Alterac fugitive found by the Frostwolves?

Thomas was curious, but didn't ask. The answer may or might not have been politically correct – Alterac's betrayal during the second war was a sore subject still. Even so, people taken in by orcs, even Frostwolves, must have been more or less prisoners.

As they were finishing up the meeting, the door opened and Gazlowe poked his head in. One could almost suspect that he had been listening in. Wouldn't surprise anybody.

"Are you people still friendly enough with each other to have dinner together or shall we rearrange the tables below?" the goblin cheerfully asked.

He seemed to think that this whole thing was very amusing, especially since it had not led to his property getting trashed due to some disagreement.

After assurances that everything was just fine, the two groups filed down the stair and let the goblin lead them into a dining room. It was a pleasantly furnished room, just like the one above. Another huge table, chair set just like before, but with one extra. Gazlowe skipped up and sat down at the high end of the table, apparently set on seeing some of the show unfold.

"It's all being paid by your leaders," he informed with an extra wide smile as other goblins filed in, carrying plates with more or less amounts of strain. "Eat as much as you want!"

Considering what kind of people they were dealing with, this felt like a very necessary piece of information.

The food was basically the same for all of them, grilled, well seasoned pork with salad – the amounts, on the other hand, were set to suit the individual guests. While the humans, and Gazlowe, were served neatly cut slices of meat, the orcs had whole hog's legs on plates the size of windows placed in front of them. They did make an effort to use knife and fork, however, although everyone present knew that this wasn't the way things usually went. Still, the orcs tried for the sake of not being offensive, a nice touch after all the testing jokes during the meeting.

Say what you want about goblins, but they know how to cook. Gazlowe cheerfully lapped up the polite but completely honest compliments. That ceremony over, Thomas felt it alright to change the subject to what interested him personally.

"Do you know if Vo'don and his students are back from Stranglethorn?" he asked, looking across the table.

Dor'ash loudly swallowed, then put down his giant fork and shook his head.

"He sent a letter saying they were doing well, but they're still in the jungle chasing after raptors," he said, then grinned toothily. "He'll be glad to hear you're doing well."

"And about that, I can't thank you enough for helping me like you have," Thomas said with a smile.

"Eh, don't mention it. I've never had a human stand up against his own kind, trying to save me and a bunch of trolls before. 'Savannah' doesn't count."

Thomas forced himself not to glance towards Simon, fully aware that just about everyone were listening in with great interest.

"Ah, yes, her," Thomas said, pained half-smile completely honest. "Where is she, anyway?"

It was an innocent question – even his escort would understand that he might feel some grudging curiosity about the Forsaken who had wounded herself so badly to save her mixed company.

"She let me know that I better make it up to her, the trouble she went through," Dor'ash said with a shake of his head. "So I assume she's up and about again, at least."

Thomas took that to mean that she wasn't anywhere nearby, and that was enough for him.

"And you?" Dor'ash asked, a little softer than before. "What of the Silver Hand?"

"They don't want anything to do with me anymore," Thomas replied. He shrugged, surprised at how little he already felt about that – so many years of his life, suddenly denied and he couldn't bring himself to be upset anymore. They were in the wrong, he knew that for certain, and he had a new purpose. "But if they are so close minded, let it be. Although I suppose I better find something else than my old signet ring for Vo'don."

Saying so he reached into a pocket on the inside of his robe and drew out the troll totem he had received in Stranglethorn.

"I don't go anywhere without this. The old one brought luck, after all," he commented with a slanted smile.

The sympathetic look in Dor'ash's eyes faded, replaced by a smile.

"Good, I will let Vo'don know that," he said. "He will appreciate it."

Simon asked to see the totem, and Thomas passed it over. It moved from hand to hand, the text on the backside studied by all, even if the humans couldn't read the text. They had been told what it said, though. Once he had it back, Thomas gently tucked the totem back into the pocket. He treated this one with even more care than his last.

He looked up as Dor'ash spoke again.

"I suppose it might not have been apparent to you," Dor'ash said, thoughtfully, "but Vo'don has a bit of a higher standing in Sen'jin, being a raptor mount breeder and trainer."

"I figured he had to be something more than just another warrior, but I wasn't sure," Thomas said.

Deep down he wondered, although he couldn't be sure if it was worth hoping, that this was a hint at that someday he may receive the honor of visiting Sen'jin village. A thrilling thought, just as much as that of perhaps getting to see Orgrimmar. Funny, how most other humans would think him mad for even considering that an honor. He tucked those thoughts away for the moment though. It was too soon to think that far ahead, even if things looked good now.

Later, after the dinner, and the goodbyes and thanks said to Gazlowe, the troll friend of both Thomas and Dor'ash was spoken of one last time. By then they all stood on the pier, the people of Theramore about to board their ship back home.

"And next time I see Vo'don, I will definitely tell him that you wore a dress last I saw you," Dor'ash added to the goodbyes, with a huge grin which caused the soon-to-be-sinking sun to glimmer on his fangs.

Rolling his entire head along with his eyes, Thomas chuckled.

"I simply _have_ to summon a friend of mine to help keep up with you," he said, taking Dor'ash's huge hand as a sign of friendly farewell. "Collins, the other man in Un'goro. He's the one with the snappy one-liners, not I."

"You didn't do that badly, my friend," the shaman said, still grinning although it had softened some.

"Thank you. Neither did you."

With a glance he extended the last, cheerful sentence to Areg and the other orcs. They grinned back, the future representative nodding agreement.

It had been a good meeting. Surely not all issues would go as smoothly as they had today, but this made a fine start.

None of them knew, at that time, what great things they were laying the groundwork for. At that time, it was still only an evolving, insane idea in Jaina Proudmoore's mind, and a forcefully suppressed wish in the Warchief's – because he felt that he could never ask that much of her.


	2. Part 2

Part 2, On Your Mark…

"Sad story, really, a tragedy to hear about a good man falling so low. I know he was your friend, but you did the right thing."

And a pat on the back to accompany it, every time somebody dropped a comment like that.

Very soon, Martin began to feel as if he was a dog, getting a compliment and treat for having done a nice little trick.

Oh, he felt like a dog alright. The dirty, simpering backyard mongrel kind.

He watched Edward, and listened with growing disgust as the man told the story again and again, with an air of smug, self-righteous outrage. No matter where he turned that voice seemed to be there, ranting about how one of their own (_one of their own, the audacity!_) turned his back on everything right and just, and sided with a group of monsters.

Oh yes, they did save us from those first trolls, Edward admitted that (sometimes), but everyone knows all monsters are on the same side. It was just a trick, of course, lulling us into a sense of safety as they brought us towards Grom'gol, and Light knows what they would have done to us there!

And traitor though he was, he was also a fool, poor old Thomas. Probably hexed by that leader troll. And certainly dead, since he ran along when those cowards fled. Tragic, but not undeserved. It was his own fault, after all. Even if he was probably hexed. We would have had to hang him anyway, for siding with the Horde.

Martin wanted to say _No_. Like he should have said back then, too. Probably. But, was "no" right? His gut feeling said it was, his upbringing and the people around him said it wasn't, with every breath they took.

The walls closed in on him, everywhere somebody he knew giving him a pat on the back, all too eager to say that he did the right thing, and those monsters and the traitor would get killed off soon enough. Nobody mocked the Alliance by fleeing when they should get what they deserved.

After just a couple of days in Stormwind he could not take any more, and fled the city. Yes, fled, he could admit that to himself. He didn't have a plan, he just took his travelling gear, untouched since Stranglethorn, and went down to the harbor. The first ship he saw was bound for Menethil.

Good enough.

Though the trip didn't take long, he busied himself by helping the crew wherever they needed a pair of strong, extra hands. Keeping busy was good.

No matter where you looked, the Wetlands were a dull green grey. The grass, the leaves on the trees and bushes, even all the pools and small swamps themselves. It was as if somebody had poured dirty dishwater onto the landscape until the ground gave up and accepted it as its own.

Martin figured that that was good. It matched his mood. And there weren't that many humans around either, not like in Stormwind at least. A lot of night elves though, coming from Auberdine.

Just after he arrived in Menethil, Martin realized the truth during his random walk through the lively port town. He didn't want to be amongst his own kind, or night elves. Looking at pink or purple faces, he saw only that same haughty arrogance of Edward, and that group of vigilantes in Stranglethorn.

So he turned his back on them in revulsion, and ended up following a small, dwarven trade caravan out into the Wetlands just hours after leaving the ship.

Finally, after a few days of travelling, he stopped in an outpost in the middle of nowhere, so small that few knew about it and even fewer cared. Oh, it had its share of murloc and gnoll attacks, what didn't around here, but nothing too bad.

There were a couple of other humans around, but mainly stout, bearded dwarves with a love for a good story and drink. Brusque they could be, but honest and straightforward. _They_ weren't the kind who would badmouth an old friend. Martin felt a little more at ease here, although he never told anyone why he had gone out here like a recluse.

Well, any small settlement always appreciated another good swordsman, and the dwarves didn't ask too many questions.

There weren't enough creatures attacking to take Martin's mind off its dark spin, though. And now he found himself at the bar in the tavern, staring down in his drink, after another dull day with too many thoughts tormenting him.

He wasn't quite sure of the time, but it had to be either very late or very early, depending on your view. Only a couple more dwarves were in the bar, sitting at a table and drinking in silence. The night shift was getting sleepy, and the day shift had not yet begun. The bartender, a stout little woman – it was a man during the day, Martin had noticed – stood a little ways away and cleaned mugs. None of the dwarves seemed to be concerned with the silence. As long as there were drinks to nurse it.

Martin appreciated it, in a fashion. At the same time though, noise would have been a distraction to his fevered brain.

The worst thing was, he dully figured, that he still didn't know what he should have done instead. He just didn't know.

_What kind of warrior are you, choosing to save your own skin rather than defend a friend?_

He grit his teeth.

Somebody came down the stairs, walking softly. The planks still creaked, though. Martin glanced around, hearing by the sound alone that it wasn't a dwarf, but a human. Indeed, the person coming down the stair was a man who had arrived the other day, alone. Martin hadn't taken much note of it, apart from inwardly groaning at another one of his own kind, who he so loathed for the moment. He recalled that the man had worn such mismatched pieces of armor that it was difficult to tell his profession. Now he wore a simple shirt and grey pants, and alternatively rubbed his eyes and scratched his blond hair as he moved down to ground level.

The bartender stepped forwards, and they exchanged some friendly banter about not being able to sleep, despite the luxury of a bed instead of camping in the mud. For one with insomnia, the guy remained at ease and polite as he ordered a dark, mild beer.

He talked some more with the bartender, and Martin listened just because it was the only sound in the room. Their voices were low, respecting those upstairs who actually could sleep.

"Yes, I was in Ironforge just a few weeks ago," the man said, and immediately the bartender began drilling him of any news from the capital.

The other two dwarves looked up as well, concerned interest apparent on their bearded faces as the man spoke of the tragedy with king Bronzebeard's kidnapped and charmed daughter. No, there was nothing new. What was there to do, if she willingly stayed with the Iron Dwarves, carrying the child of their king in her womb?

"But…" the man started, carefully, "what about that story the rescue expedition told, eh? About those orcs that saved them when they were attacked on the way out?"

Martin's hands clenched around his mug, and he looked up sharply. That, he hadn't heard about. The dwarves all looked at the blond man in surprise.

"Where'd ya hear that, lad?" one of the male dwarves asked, but not so much accusing as softly. "His Majesty said he dinna want people to know, it being so confusing."

The man shook his head.

"You can't keep something like that secret, laddies," he said with a smile.

"What?" Martin asked in a hoarse voice, speaking before thinking.

"Not my place to tell," the other man replied, looking at the dwarves for approval.

They exchanged glances again, then finally nodded.

"See," the bartender woman said, seating herself on a chair behind the bar, "His Majesty sent a large expedition into Blackrock Depths, ta save princess Moira after she was kidnapped."

Martin nodded. Everyone knew about that.

The woman sighed bitterly and continued.

"They killed that beast Emperor Thaurassian, but the princess dinnae wanna come back with them."

"Yeah, I heard that," Martin said, and their downcast looks were enough to break his lethargy. He glanced around, meeting all the dwarves' gazes with a compassionate look. Light knew what would happen to their kingdom when their current king died, and that half Black Iron child would make his claim to the throne.

"Well… then there's the darnest thing," the woman picked up again, rubbing her face with a square hand. "On the way out, the poor lads were shocked out of their minds, o'course. An' then they were attacked by a large gang o' Black Irons, an' so exhausted and confused that they were all about to get slaughtered. Then suddenly these orcs come barreling an' kill all the Dark Irons, saving our boys."

She shook her head in disbelief while Martin just stared at her. Nobody else spoke.

"An' so, then," she continued after a moment, "them orcs explained their Warchief sent them ta save our princess." She shook her head again, and Martin felt as if his throat would turn into a knot. "Said it was 'cause the Warchief wanted ta show that he wanna end the fighting. But when them orcs heard what happened to the princess, they helped our lads out, and all the way to Thorium Point."

Silence fell.

"Damndest thing I ever heard, by me beard," one of the male dwarves muttered. By the sound of his tone, he felt as helplessly lost and confused about this as the woman looked.

Nobody spoke for a while. Martin stared at his drink, clutching it so hard his fingers turned white. More acts of good will from the Horde. Was the whole world set on showing him how wrong he had been?

"Well, I have to tell you, no offence or anything," the other human said, raising his drink lightly. "I've got friends who were on Hyjal, and they swear up and down the orcs and trolls ain't so bad, when they have to stay civilized."

"But we've got them attacking Menethil down there almost everyday," the second male dwarf gruffly said.

"Ah yeah, those are some clan who don't accept the Warchief as their leader, I hear."

"That's what they would want us to think, eh?"

The human man just shrugged. Then he looked at Martin, and gave his back a light pat.

"What's your first impression, friend?" he asked, with a smile.

Martin was about to growl at the touch, but this one didn't mean to say 'hey, you did great back there, abandoning a traitor without a word. That'll learn 'im'. Even so it felt uncomfortable, almost like a small itch as the man removed his hand. Martin kept from scratching though, unwilling to give the impression of being disgusted by the friendly gesture. The feeling melted away quickly, too, while he shook his head.

"I dunno," he muttered. "Weird."

"Well," the bartender said with a pale smile, "I'll'a give them that, them orcs know how ta brew a good drink."

That, even the male dwarves had to agree on, although grudgingly at first. But then the blond stranger began telling an amusing story of the first time he went to Ratchet and his friends fooled him into drinking Thunderblood ale. After that, it descended into more discussions of that one good thing one couldn't deny that the orcs had brought – fantastic beverages that could knock you off your feet, with a huge smile upon your face.

Martin didn't take much part in it. Suddenly he found it hard to sit straight, and bit by bit his head seemed to gain weight until it felt as if it weighed a ton. Sluggishly he blinked, trying to pull himself together. Huh… normally he felt intoxication creeping up on him, it never struck like this. Maybe they were right when they said that drinking when depressed could do bad things to your system.

"You okay there?" the other man said, gently gripping his shoulders.

"Mrrf…" Martin managed. "Drank too much?"

He wasn't sure, but it seemed the only explanation. Not that he could think clearly enough to come up with anything else.

"I thought you said you didn't have any Stormstout in stock," the man told the bartender, and all the dwarves merrily chuckled.

Shaking his head, the man turned back to Martin.

"You better get some fresh air. Well, fresh as in humid, and you're breathing half the landscape, but you know what I mean."

Martin didn't really know, because there were too many words there for them to make sense. He let himself be helped to his feet and led outside of the tavern, then through the settlement.

They were in a quiet, abandoned half-garden, still within the walls but out of earshot from just about everyone, when his head began to clear. Enough sense surfaced to tell him that something was wrong, and he recalled that itch on his back.

"You…" he mumbled, snarl failing completely.

The man shoved him, and he tumbled against a tree, crumbling to the wet ground.

"You know, good Sir," the stranger said, "I normally see myself as a good-natured, friendly guy. In my profession it really helps when you're a people person. Makes folks open up and trust you. Give you information. But…" There was nothing soft about his voice now. "Being a friendly guy, I think that friendships are serious business."

Martin pushed himself up, broken curses making it through in his hissing breath. The world swam around him, and he didn't trust his limbs to obey. Poison. A rogue, and a pissed off one at that. Shit, shit, shit…

"What are you on about?" Martin slurred, struggling to focus.

"Thomas Southstone ring a bell?" The man watched with satisfaction as Martin tensed, a groan escaping the swordsman. "Oh good, it does."

"Light, look, I… Light, what would you expect?" Holding up his shaking hands, the warrior swallowed hard. "They were Horde, they couldn't be helping us- and those elves would've shot us dead too!"

A strangled sound escaped him when the rogue's hand slapped onto his throat, long, strong fingers holding Martin's head against the tree.

"Why don't you just tell me, in your own words, what exactly happened, hmm?" The smile was worthy of a snake. "Take your time, be honest, and maybe I'll give you an antidote when you're done. Deal?"

"I-if you kill me-"

"Kill you? Goodness no, that might get Thomas into trouble." The rogue leaned in a little closer. "But trust me when I say that I can make things really unpleasant for you for a very long time, and there won't be a nick on your body to prove anything. And nothing anyone can do about it either." He tilted his head slightly. "Yes, even more unpleasant than your bad conscience."

That stung worse than any poisoned needle. Martin slumped, closing his eyes with a groan. The hand left his throat and patted his shoulder.

"There, I knew you weren't a bad guy," the rogue said, not so threatening anymore. "Thomas always said you were somebody he could rely on."

"Stop. Please."

"Ah, ha, ha. I knew it."

The smug tone coaxed a weak growl from Martin, but all will to fight had been sapped from him – not only from whatever concoction had been injected into his body. He could not defend himself from his own guilt.

"Fine, I'll play nice," the rogue said, gently helping Martin to sit down on a thick, curving root bending out of the soft earth. Then the stranger crouched before him. "Now, I'm a little fuzzy on what exactly happened. From what I heard it sounds like Thomas suddenly joined up with the Horde and started poisoning people left and right, which doesn't sound like Tommy at all."

_Because that's _your _job?_ Martin bitterly thought.

But he clenched his teeth and obeyed the request. Telling the story made him feel doubly ashamed again, especially when he recounted how it began, with those trolls and their raptors risking their lives to kill the much bigger trolls. It returned with even more reinforcements when he reached the ending, and Thomas' refusal to stand by as his friends were executed – Horde though they may be.

The rogue listened in silence, and that silence stretched as Martin finished. The seconds trickled by. Insects buzzed and the wind moved through the leaves of the trees, but other than that the world was still.

Then, finally.

"Alright, first, you're not poisoned, it's only a weak sedative drug. It'll be gone soon," the rogue said with a smile which returned to honestly friendly. "Second, I forgive you. I'm sure Thomas does too, if you ask him."

"Huh…" Martin muttered, shaking his head. How could he be forgiven…

Then he blinked, as the information made it through the remaining mist in his brain. Looking up with a start, he saw the rogue getting to his feet, grinning.

"Thomas is alive?" Martin breathed.

The grin widened.

"Of course," the rogue said, obviously delighting in being the one to deliver the news. "A guy like Vo'don wouldn't go through that much trouble, just to let a pal of his get killed later."

"Where is he?"

"Vo'don? Dunno. Thomas? Theramore. Doing mighty fine too, last I heard."

"Oh." Martin's shoulders sunk, and a metaphorical lead weight dropped from his heart. "Thank the Light."

Most of his mind swam with the relief, but part of him managed to piece together the puzzle pieces. Thomas _had_ mentioned that other man who had also been in Un'goro during that unbelievable episode. For the moment though, Martin couldn't recall the man's name. It was probably best that way.

He also realized, when the rogue made a motion as to leave, that this business truly was concluded. Without a body count, even.

"What are you going to do now?" Martin asked, unsure if it was wise to speak up, or if he even wanted to know.

In the light a distant torch, the other man's teeth glimmered.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to find and bitchslap Sir Edward Twain silly," he said. A pause. "_Do_ you mind?"

Martin ran a quick soul search, pondering the whole thing for a moment. While he did, the rogue stood unmoving, politely waiting.

"No," Martin finally said, his voice even. "No, I don't. As long as you don't kill him."

"Wasn't going to, I assure you. Sorry about the scare."

The rogue even held out a hand, and after a moment's hesitation Martin took it and got hoisted to his feet – with ease that didn't really surprise him, despite the fact that he was the taller and more muscular. He staggered for a second, the aftereffects of the drug still clinging to him. The world had at least returned into focus. After the first few steps he took, he regained his balance almost completely.

Together they headed back to the small settlement, then parted by the tavern without a word. Martin headed inside, not looking back, and went straight to the room he rented. Flopping onto the bed fully dressed, his mind battled exhaust and hundreds of whirling thoughts. Theramore… he had to return to Menethil, as soon as possible. Just had to sleep first, then he would be off. He wasn't sure if he could bear to face Thomas, but Martin wanted to at least know for sure that the paladin really was alive and well.

Huh… he'd never been drugged and assaulted by a rogue before. He'd never imagined that it was an event he would feel grateful of.

* * *

The stable was pleasantly warm compared to the dank, eternal mist outside, especially at this time in the morning. Rams – goats! – and horses alike slept amidst their own thick smell and the dusty scent of hay. This actually might be the driest ground level floor in the entire "village". The dwarves chose upper floors for their beds in this area, but they took great care to keep their mounts comfortable as well. The horses surely appreciated it too, even if they didn't have to lay down to sleep.

A dark brown horse named Rosy found herself roused at the sound of familiar steps. She snorted loudly in greeting as her owner entered the barn together with a sleepy stable boy. The boy got a few coppers for the early awakening, and Rosy got a carrot and two sugar cubes as a peace offering for dragging her out of her warm little world at such an ungodly hour. But the sun would rise soon, and the rogue felt it best to leave early.

He felt rather certain that Martin would not tell on him and call the guards; the man clearly did wrestle with a fair amount of guilt. However, a rogue who is too trusty is a careless rogue. Those have shorter life expectancies than a water elemental in Blackrock Mountain.

Mounting his steed, Collins Reed took in a deep breath of the crisp, if dank, morning air before urging Rosy to a trot with a soft command.

Getting a chance to chat with Martin had been easy, thanks to the remote place and few inhabitants. Catching a man alone in Stormwind might be a little more tricky. But, it had to be done.

As soon as Collins was done there, he would go to Theramore. He didn't doubt that Thomas would be a bit upset about his rogue friend's little "project". Which was why Collins never planned to kill either one of the traitorous assholes, even before he heard the whole story.

Well, he wasn't as angry as he had been before, when he hadn't gotten all the details. Not forgiving, oh no, never that. Yet, neither was he so cold that he could not understand the pressure and stress that had driven Martin to side with the Alliance and not his saviors in the jungle. After all, Martin had not known Vo'don enough to trust him, and he was right in fearing that the elves and humans may have killed him as well. Thomas had certainly escaped by a hair's breadth.

However, most importantly Martin obviously felt ashamed. On the other hand, according to all accounts Edward was going around happily telling everyone that Theramore's newly appointed emissary was a filthy, orc-loving traitor of the Alliance.

That deserved some unpleasantries. Collins grimly chuckled to himself.

Not everyone becomes a rogue because they like to slit throats. In Collins' view, death was not only bad, but also rather boring considering all the things he could inflict on a living traitor bastard.

On your next mark… get set… go.

The End.

* * *

_Author's note: While I _had_ planned on having Collins show up again sooner or later, I ended up writing this mainly because people asked about him in their reviews, and it inspired me. So this chapter is all to you, Isobel Kelte ;)_

_I'll leave it to your wicked imaginations what Collins does to Edward, gentle readers. It probably involved a nasty case of drawn out food poison, though._

_(Some of you have asked about the belf Shana, and honestly I didn't find her that interesting, personally. But, well, she may turn up somewhere again, you never know!)_

_Tune in next time as Dor'ash and Sarah head out for another (or three) near-death experience(s)!_


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